“Miss Freemantle, who else seemed guilty?”
Deborah was recovering from her fright and even beginning to enjoy being the centre of attention. “Jenny, Miss Trask,” she said eagerly. “She was in such a state, she threatened to wring my neck.”
“You know what I thought she meant,” cried Jenny. “You know, Hamish.”
“And that’s all it was?” asked Hamish, remembering the forestry worker.
“I swear.”
“Okay, next?”
Deborah said defiantly, “Sir Bernard looked mad as anything.”
“Sir Bernard?”
“She said something about being glad she hadn’t married me because of what I did. I thought she was bitching on about my interest in Peta. To be quite frank, I don’t come out of that looking very good, but the thought of those millions got to me.”
“Mr Taylor?”
“I didn’t know what she was talking about, so I told her not to be so silly.”
“Miss Fitt?”
“It was only after she had gone that I realized I had nothing to feel guilty about. But I’m one of those people who feel guilty about anything. Everything in the whole wide world is my fault,” said Jessica.
“And Mr Trumpington?”
“I thought she’d overheard me talking to Maria,” mumbled Peter.
“I’m afraid I must know what you said,” prompted Hamish.
“Why?” put in Jessica fiercely. “If Jenny can keep her secret, so can Peter. Take him outside and ask him there.”
“It’s all right,” said Peter, taking her hands in his. “The fact is, I told Maria I thought we’d make a pretty good pair. Stupid way to propose, isn’t it?”
Jessica’s grey face became suffused with colour and her eyes shone. It was her one moment of beauty. She clasped his hand tightly.
“The police from Strathbane will soon be here,” said Hamish. “I will go and question the cook. Then I will return and take statements from you one after another, if they have not arrived by the time I’m through with the cook.”
Mr Johnson led him to the cook’s bedroom and unlocked the door.
“I’ll be all right,” said Hamish. “Go and ask the staff if they saw anyone on the tower stair and if there is any sign of that missing light bulb. Priscilla said the light would not come on, so I suppose someone removed it.”
Sean was sitting crouched on the end of his bed. He was fully dressed.
“Now, Sean,” said Hamish severely, “I’m not going to be able to keep quiet about that cat anymore. You threatened to kill Peta. You threatened to kill Deborah Freemantle and, lo and behold, someone takes your meat cleaver and does just that. I suppose it is your meat cleaver?”
“Aye, it’s gone,” said Sean wearily. “Johnson took me to look for it when ah got back frae the village.”
Hamish’s eyes sharpened. “Back from the village?”
“I wus down fur a wee dram wi’ Dougie, the gamekeeper.”
“Where?”
“The bar. There wus a lot in, so they kep’ it open late.”
“When did you get back?”
“Dougie waud know. It was himself that ran me back. I came in the door and Johnson grabs me and drags me off to the kitchen yelling about the meat cleaver. It’s gone, so he says ah’ve tae stay in my room till the polis comes.”
Hamish wondered why he should feel so relieved that this unlovely cook had an alibi. Probably for Priscilla’s sake, he decided after a moment’s reflection.
“As long as you’ve got witnesses to say you weren’t in the castle, you should be all right.” Hamish looked down at him thoughtfully. “How bad was the attack on your wife?”
“Oh, her, broke her jaw.”
“Why? Were you drunk, man?”
“Naw, ah fixed the Sunday dinner. Sole a l’ltalienne, it wus.”
“And?”
“The silly cow looks at it and says, “Whaur’s the ketchup?” So I let her have it.”
“Your last job, I remember from your file, was at the Glasgow Queen. Why did you leave?”
Sean stared at the floor.
“Out wi’ it. I’ll find out anyway.”
“The boss’s missus – we called her auld tattie-heid – says ah was spending too much time ower the soups. Ah says they had to thicken and she says ah was tae thicken them up wi’ cornflour. Sacrilege, that! I telt her she wus a greasy penny-pinching auld whore.”
“Oh, my. Look, Sean, when this is over, if it iss ever over, you should watch that tongue o’ yours. You’ve got a comfy billet here and Johnson’s a good man. You can stay in here until Blair arrives, for I cannae trust you not to do something stupid like running away.”
He went out and locked the door and pocketed the key.
He found Priscilla and asked her to lead him to the tower stair.
He peered up at the empty light-bulb socket. It was above where he stood on a half-landing and could easily be reached by someone of normal height.
“I’ll need to search for that light bulb,” he said. “If, say, a light bulb goes dead in one of the guest’s rooms, do they ask you for a replacement?”
“Not usually,” said Priscilla. “There are spare light bulbs in all the rooms in the shelf under the bedside table.”
“Show me, but not Deborah’s room. That’d better be left alone till the forensic team arrives.”
Priscilla led the way along the narrow corridor below the tower room. “Here’s an unoccupied guest room,” she said, opening the door. “In fact, Hamish, there are going to be a lot of unoccupied guest rooms next week. Cancellations have been coming in. This has hit us hard. Oh, why didn’t you answer the door when I called? If I’d told you what Deborah was up to, you might have thought it worthwhile coming back to the castle with me to warn her.”
“You might haff warned her yourself,” said Hamish stiffly. He went into the room. Three 60-watt light bulbs lay in their packets on the ledge under the top of the bedside table.
“Three in each room?” he asked.
“No, sometimes two, sometimes one, sometimes four. It varies.”
“Wait a minute, if someone wanted to hide the light bulb taken out of the tower stair, they couldn’t just leave it lying alongside the packets.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but they could. Often there are empty packets, or packets with used light bulbs in them. Some guests put in a new light bulb and put the old one in the packet and then replace it with the others. Or they simply throw the old light bulb into the wastepaper basket. But a used light bulb would not be a sign of guilt.”
“Damn. Damn this whole case. There’s something wrong, something nagging at the back of my mind, something someone said.”
He went back to the lounge and began to question the guests again, where they had been at the time Deborah was attacked. They all said they had been in their bedrooms but had no witnesses and, apart from Sean, no one had an alibi.
The contingent from Strathbane arrived headed by Superintendent Peter Daviot, who looked tired and cross. Jimmy Anderson took Hamish aside and explained that Mary French had called for a lawyer immediately she had arrived in Strathbane. Mr Daviot had sat in on the questioning and it had soon transpired that Blair had not a shred of evidence against her. Her lawyer pointed out that a ‘mercy killing’ in the past was no proof that she had anything to do with the murder of Peta Gore, who, until this visit north, had been a complete stranger to her. And Mary French was out for blood, threatening to sue for damages. “She’ll be back in today,” said Jimmy ruefully. “I wish she had done it, for she’s a nasty piece o’ work.”
Hamish was called into the library by Mr Daviot. He gave the superintendent a brief summary of what had happened. “I also had to interview Matthew Cowper as to his movements on the night of the murder,” added Hamish, not without a tinge of malice. “He appears to have been overlooked in all the excitement.”